


For Pity's Sake

by Gentleman_Death (MrSpears)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Betrayal, Fear, Intimidation, Love, M/M, its only a kink for me really, lestat is still a dick, louis keeps making things worse, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/Gentleman_Death
Summary: Lestat here, once again. I wish I had beautiful words for you – you, who deserves to hear decadent things. My words for you should skate over your skin with a touch softer than spider silk, like my fingers tracing over the line of your jaw, trailing over the curve of your delectable ear. Treasured reader, do not heed my forthcoming anger. Set this book down and turn your eyes to another of my more sublime accounts – succumb to me again, allow me to seduce you – no! I take it back, I need you now, do not turn your head or flip the page in hopes that this relentless melancholy runs its course and leaves behind the Lestat you already adore. Keep your attention fixated here, your eyes on me – I am such a delight for the eyes, how many times I have told you so?





	For Pity's Sake

Lestat here, once again. I wish I had beautiful words for you – you, who deserves to hear decadent things. My words for you should skate over your skin with a touch softer than spider silk, like my fingers tracing over the line of your jaw, trailing over the curve of your delectable ear. Treasured reader, do not heed my forthcoming anger. Set this book down and turn your eyes to another of my more sublime accounts – succumb to me again, allow me to seduce you – no! I take it back, I need you now, do not turn your head or flip the page in hopes that this relentless melancholy runs its course and leaves behind the Lestat you already adore. Keep your attention fixated here, your eyes on me – I am such a delight for the eyes, how many times I have told you so? 

It is unlike me to wax funereal. I had wondered, of course, why Louis has been more insistent than usual on starving himself. Louis wears hunger like lace; it serves as an accent to his misery, which suits him as well as a closely tailored dinner jacket. If he dressed as well as he bellyached, he might outshine even me. It is a tragedy to love someone who treats themselves as dross, who could not be driven to care that their sweater has holes in the cuffs where their thumbs poke through, much less that it is a few sizes too big in the first place. He doesn’t ever seem to concern himself with the fact that his appearance reflects back on me, and if he were to improve it we might…I digress, again. 

His hunger makes him weak. His temper, without hot blood to fuel it, fades quickly into exhaustion. I approached him with nothing less than the most measured ire. And you will recall that I had already attempted once before to speak to him reasonably regarding the matter. When I returned to his side, in that quiet room where he has sequestered himself from all things living or dead – all things save for David, it would seem – he did his best to leave me unacknowledged. He kept his eyes on the fan of papers in front of him, jotting something morose down on the top sheet. I do not even know what he was writing – some melancholy bit of writing, some defamation of my character – some lovelorn tripe to the deceiver on the floor below. I moved with such preternatural grace that he did not hear me walk in, and I touched my fingertips to the inkpot – sliding it an inch or two across the desk so that he would know I was there. 

I kept my fingertips resting on the inkpot’s small lip as I searched to arrest his gaze. He did not look up at me for a full minute, not until he had finished whatever he was penning, and then set his fountain pen down at the paper’s side. He turned his head, a single flickering candle giving just enough light to send variable hues of fire sliding down the length of his dark hair. He gleamed in the darkness, it suited him so well. Ethereal as a painting done in perfect low lighting, with the color of his clothes bleeding into the shadows around him – he seemed himself the moon hanging in an unbalanced night sky, doing his best to keep some form of harmony wrapped around his shoulders, hugging his pride like a cloak of stars. 

I smiled, an easy expression spreading across handsome lips. His eyes were so like emeralds, expertly cut and set underneath fine black eyebrows that sported a natural arch, granting him dual perpetual expressions of gentle confusion and slight tasteful disdain. 

I tipped the ink jar, and its pitch black contents spilled, covering his creation in a river of tar. 

His lip curled, and he grabbed the paper – ripping it away from the desk and throwing it down onto the ground as if he did not care that it was ruined. Some of the ink stained his white fingertips and spattered across his sleeve. I expressed my disapproval in a gentle coo, reaching out to rake my own hand through his thick, furiously beautiful tresses. 

“Louis,” I spoke to him in dulcet tones, as one might when they are approaching a feral cat. “There is no need for…” 

He moved away from my hand, pushing his chair back. I expected him to spring to his feet, but he just sat there, openly defiant and glowering at me. Out of the light, his eyes were even darker, forest green – almost black. I pursed my lips and crossed one leg over the other, perching on the edge of his desk with my hand still outstretched, fingers curling around the empty space before I pulled it back to my side. 

“I did not ask,” Louis said, each word so burdened with poison that speaking was an effort that made his throat convulse, “for your presence.” 

“Am I a serving boy, then, to be summoned and dismissed at will?” What a filthy and ironic comparison. 

His jaw tightened. “Do not touch me.” 

He spoke as if he had a say in the matter at all. I lifted myself off the edge of the table, legs spilling over the side in a smooth descent. I set my hand down on the left arm of his chair, and then grabbed hold of the right. I loomed over him, the chair legs huffing as I pushed him back an inch or two further into the shadows. They draped over him protectively, threatening to conceal him from me. He did not cower, but I could taste the stirrings of his fear. It started collecting like syrup at the back of my throat, and I smiled again, tongue flashing over fangs and leaving them gleaming in the candlelight. 

I grasped his chin, wrapping iron fingers around him until I was satisfied that his bones would crack apart if I squeezed any harder. I saw him wince, and that sharp crinkling around his eyes was almost a disappointment. I had not thought to break his resolve so soon, but it also left me wondering what more I could do – all of the ways I could bring my Louis down to his knees, how I could make him repent. 

“You could learn a thing or two from David. He begged to pay penance. I had him groveling on the floor as a pauper at the throne of a tyrant.” I lied through my teeth and wondered if he knew that I was doing so. 

Evidently, he did, or he caught some hint of it – because he scoffed. Despite the pain in his jaw, and how much damage he knew I could do, he was not going to bend easily to my will. 

“You are a bad liar, Lestat, you always have been.” 

“Ask my forgiveness, Louis, or I will show you the Hell you think you have been living.” 

“I do not seek your forgiveness…!” He barely managed to spit out the words before I grabbed hold of his face. How much stronger I was than him, how easy it would have been to shatter his skull and rip his heart out in two fluid motions. I pushed against his face with enough force to send the chair skidding back – it made that ugly sound as it dragged across the floor and crashed into the nightstand behind him. His head whipped back and his lily white throat flashed at me, every still vein and tendon exposed – a teasing gesture, suitable for a trollop. I barely registered that my hand was reaching behind me, searching for something to grab hold of – whatever would adequately channel my bitterness, my thinly controlled wrath that would unleash on him in full at any given moment. 

My fingers fell around the candlestick’s brass curves, and my smile grew – another soft sound rolling luxuriously up my throat, trailing off my tongue. “Shall I put out the light?” I did not even wait for his answer. The candle hit the desk behind me, and I pulled the candlestick into the air. It was still hot in my fingers, wax dripping down the back of my hand and solidifying almost as soon as it touched the skin. His pale face managed to light up the otherwise absolute darkness, and his eyes had become searching beams – floodlights of brilliant green. His terror was thick enough in the air that I could have torn into it with my teeth as surely as if it were flesh. 

I turned the candlestick in my fingers – my anger stirs the devil in me, and I could not resist tossing a cheeky look at my petrified Louis as I placed the brass against my lips, opening my mouth just enough to allow my tongue to slip through and drag over the tarnished, bitter metal. I enjoyed seeing his Adam’s apple dip so dramatically – such a showy swallow, and such effort it may have taken in his panic – did he do that, just for me? Showing off so that I might take pity? Oh, Louis. Coquettish Louis. 

I knew that I could wedge the candlestick into his skull and break it apart with no effort at all. If I used the full of my strength, I could cave his temples in and make his alluring eyes pop out of his head and roll across the floor like a pair of gambling dice. He knew it, as well. I saw him lift his hand – long fingers reaching out beseechingly in the darkness. Louis has fingers like a pianist, so delicately adept and unwavering. He had not pulled his gaze away from me, as if he knew that his eyes are the gateway to my passions, my sympathies. Can the devil truly have sympathies? My Louis was intent on finding out.

“Lestat,” his voice trembled. How I loved that little jump of fear that pushed my name into almost three syllables. His lips, beautifully shaped and enchantingly pink, formed each word with purpose – as if he sought to entrance me with their movement alone. “Please…I am…” 

Too weak. Too hungry. I knew it; but he would not say it. Of course, he had to say something. He knew one blow, one hint of my full strength could shatter his cheekbone, rip off the better half of his face. As if I would ever do anything to malign that exquisite face. 

My wrath came down on his collarbone. I heard it snap, which was satisfying enough even if I knew there would be no lasting damage. He would heal quickly, but the pain was enough to rattle him. I had barely even touched him – I had certainly not dipped into the reserves of my power. But he could feel it oozing from my very being, all that was untouched and potential, just resting underneath my skin. If I lost my control, it would tear me apart. And him. 

He made an ugly sound but swallowed most of it. He let out a hard pant, reaching up to clutch his shoulder – and I could hear bone grinding against bone as his shifting caused the break to rub. He dropped his gaze momentarily before pulling it back up to meet mine. The flash and fire was gone for now, all that remained were cool ashes – my poor Louis. He deserved so much worse. 

“Lestat!” His hand came back up, anticipating that I would hit him again. “Stop! For all that is…” he couldn’t even bring himself to finish, shaking his head he tried to sit up, but just ended resting his back against the chair. 

“Holy?” I finished for him, my voice taking on a pleasant lilt as I grabbed the back of his chair. Like the inkpot, I just tipped it over, sweeping the world out from underneath him as he tumbled to the floor. He groaned again when he hit it, his raven hair tumbling over his shoulders, sticking to his face and his neck. “Do you entreat this perfect devil, this wicked prince?” 

“For pity’s sake! Have mercy on me!” His self-hatred was coming off his skin like steam. I walked around him until my tall boots – fashionable and with a price tag that rivaled most mortgages – rested by his head. He dared to try and look up, and I set my heel on the back of his neck, forcing his head back down until his nose was pressed against the floor. 

“It is a wonder how I love you, Louis, and yet I do. I wish you were not so ungrateful. Is it so difficult to love me in return?” I applied just enough pressure to make him squirm. I could feel my own hunger knot in my stomach, sharpening the edge of my existing fury. “I suppose it is not fair to ask – and maybe I do not wish to know the answer. And you were quick enough to tell me why you chose him – over me.” I pulled my heel away and knelt down beside him, grabbing the injured shoulder and flipping him onto his back. Captivating eyes. A sensuous mouth. I saw it all staring back at me from the reflection his glassy eyes. 

I lowered my mouth to his throat and kissed it. A gentle brush of lips, my hand traveling down the front of his chest. Beneath his rumpled sweater was a form as hard as marble, sculpted by some divine craftsman and made for worship. I indulged myself, dragging my tongue up over his Adam’s apple, tracing it over his jawline and leading it up to his earlobe. I pulled that tasty bit of flesh into my mouth and bit down, and I felt his whole body jerk underneath me. 

“Steady,” I whispered into that flawlessly formed ear as my lips traced the ridges of cartilage. I grabbed his chin again, moving down until my lips hovered over his. He has such a wonderful mouth – beautifully shaped and made for all forms of sin. I pressed my own against them, forcing them apart with my tongue, my free hand moving to dig into the swelling flesh over the already-healing bone, grinding deep enough to make him wince again. I filled his mouth, and then my tongue retreated to flicker over his bottom lip. I pulled it into my mouth, fangs slicing through the thin skin. He was so empty that there was nothing much for me to claim, and it is a pity that he won’t have scars. 

He remained so still, so unresisting. I hoped he would fight more. 

“I like you better angry,” I told him, and I was well aware it sounded petulant. 

“I am angry,” he sounded resigned. 

“Your resistance is so feigned,” I rested my hands on his shoulders, pinning him down against the floor and holding his gaze. “What will it take, to make you submit?” 

“More than you have.” 

I doubted that. Very much.


End file.
